


Smoke and Mirrors

by A_Fine_Piece



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dubious Consent, F/M, Falling In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While atoning for her past treachery, Hisana meets her future husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Mirrors

Thick white paint hides the lines, shields the grief, and veils the sorrow creasing her face. Thick white paint  _transforms_  her into someone else, places her somewhere else, and allows her mind to wander. She is reborn out of thick white paint. She is renewed. She is splendid and whole, not fractured pieces with jagged sharp edges. She is no longer the woman with a heavy heart and sore feet. She is a  _character_ —lovelorn in the snow, contented in the spring, or pensive in the autumn. She is a construction, deriving meaning from those who  _watch_  and from those who truly pay  _attention_ . She is everything, anything, and nothing in a single breath.

She hides behind a façade of thick white paint. It is a mask that has yet to break, like the many she has donned over the near century. It is a veil that no one and nothing has ever pierced. It is a feign that she has constructed to spare her the contrition that overwhelms her when she is merely Hisana, when she is not donning the mask and when she is not playing  _the part_.

She prefers the mask that she has meticulously constructed to the one with which she was born. She prefers the role that has been written by others and plotted out in dance to the one that she has written and plotted herself.

Sitting up, she readjusts her mask, smoothing out the edges of her lips, which are red, and the contours of her brows, which are black. She then stands to be dressed. She is garbed in heavy robes and in stark colors, rich reds and blacks. She plucks a fan among many. It is always a fan, never a parasol or a sword. But, it is never the same fan.

She moves to the stage. The fibers in her arms and legs burn. Her nerves pop and crackle under her flesh, like eels fluttering and electric. Her stomach clenches, and her heart stops.

The lights come on, and she is alone. The din of the room suddenly quiets. She suddenly quiets, holding her breath as her heartbeats soften and slow.

Before she moves into her first pose, she spots a man. It is always a man. It is never the same man. After she has selected him out of a field of others, she dances for him and him alone, pretending that he is the only one in the  _whole_  world. The others recede to the black abyss beyond the stage lights, like waves pulling into an ocean of twilight.

She dances for this one man. She stares into his eyes, and she pretends they are madly, deeply in love. It is the sort of love that only happens  _once_. It is the sort of feeling that anguishes the spirit, burns the heart, and leaves the person spent, bones bleaching against the crashing waves. She knows he feels it, too. His eyes flicker. They are gray as a storm cloud, stark against his otherwise emotionless countenance. He sees her. He acknowledges her, and, ever so slightly, he leans forward as if she is pulling him toward her with her stare.

She does not know this man, and he does not know her; although, he is beginning to know her. Or, at least, he believes he is. She can tell. His eyes are alert and probing. He is not drunk like many of the other men. She has danced for drunken men, and she has found it unrewarding. The veil of alcohol leaves them stupid. They do not respond in a way that she prefers. She only selects the clearly inebriated men when she performs stories that involve unrequited love or stories that involve  _disgust_.

This dance is not about unrequited love. It is about longing, yearning to know another. It is about embers and remnants. It is about the pain of death, the sorrow of loss.

The man for whom she dances knows about the pain of death. He knows about the sorrow of loss. She can read it in his gaze. She can detect it in his posture. He intently watches, following her every movement as if he already knows the steps.

For a beat, she fools herself. Her heart flutters in her chest with the same erratic intensity of a hummingbird's wings. A wanton warmth pools deep in her core. It is a feeling that she has only experienced once before. She wants. She craves. She  _yearns_  for his touch. But, it can never be.

She turns, slowly. The realization that it can never be and never should have been crashes over her. This realization fills her like water flooding into the lungs of a drowning woman. She chokes on this realization as it transforms into grief.

The lovers must separate for that is what is written. Those are the steps that she must perform. That is the expression that must sink her heart.

For the final pose, she glances into the audience. Instinctively, her eyes lift to the man she has chosen. She searches the darkness, but he is gone.

The grief is complete, and he has played his part to perfection. She squeezes her eyes shut, and she turns her head to the side as if the pain of his deprivation is too great to bear.

Silence fills the ears and tortures the mind, and she is gone. She does not reflect on the audience or its response in the aftermath. She neither replays her steps nor scrutinizes her fidelity to the piece. She simply leaves like her lover in the audience.

Her feet know the way to her room. Half a century has trained the muscles and ingrained the mind. Forty-four steps, and she is at her door. One step, and she is across the threshold. Four steps, and she is at her small wooden vanity.

Nimble fingers reach for a cloth and cleanser. Mindless are the motions that strip her of her mask. Slowly, it disappears. Stroke by stroke, the dying lover fades away until only Hisana remains.

Barefaced, she grimaces, observing the delicate lines of her countenance. A sense of great loathing surges through her. Intense displeasure climbs up the back of her throat until she fears that it will choke her. A deep hatred sinks her heart and chills the blood in her veins.

She prefers the mask and the role to the reality, and she sighs, heavy and deep.

Without thought, she tears out the kanzashi and pins from her hair, allowing her tresses to flow freely down her shoulders and back. Tenderly, her fingers trace small circles against her throbbing scalp.

 _Relief_.

She stands, desiring a source of greater relief. A careless inclination provokes her to shed her layers of silk, and she half-heartedly places them in proper order before moving into the washroom.

As instructed, Hisana's apprentice has drawn a scalding hot bath. She indulges, languishing for what feels like a small eternity. Muscles, worn and battered, release fiber by fiber. Her poor fractured thoughts go numb and darken. She inhales deep breaths and exhales with equal languor.

The serenity drawn in steam, however, ends abruptly.

Hisana stirs in the deep tub. Not even the lavender perfume or oils soothe her once the row starts. It is faint at first, but she feels a great spiritual pressure rush through her, and she is intrigued.

She is graceful in her departure. Swift in her footing. Her heart drums excitedly in her chest. She carries herself as a dancer no matter the situation or level of privacy. She enjoys the feeling of moving listlessly through time and space. She loves the feeling of muscles burning under imagined strain as she shrugs on a fresh silk robe.

Perfecting her obi as she opens the door, she gazes quietly down the corridor. It is as she suspects, and she smiles knowingly to herself as she braces a shoulder against the wooden frame of the entryway. Her arms fold against her chest, and the line of her hips angles up as she stares.

"I am sorry, sir, but she is not available tonight." Her apprentice chatters hasty words of refusal. Her countenance blanches under the young lord's demanding stare.

Hisana cocks a brow and tilts her head. Her apprentice is a young woman with great beauty and skill at the shamisen and koto, but she possesses very little knowledge of the world outside the Flower and Willow World. This deficiency in her training needs to be corrected, Hisana muses before shifting in an elegant arch. "Sister," she calls softly, and, suddenly, all eyes turn to her, "please, forgive my forgetfulness. Preparations for the dance filled my mind to the detriment of the accuracy of my schedule. Allow the lord entrance. He may stay until the snowstorm lessens. We would be  _remiss_  to allow one of the future heirs of a noble family to wander into such deadly conditions."

Her apprentice gapes at this gentle rebuke. Her cheeks redden, her lips quiver, and she gives a high-pitched cry. "Yes, Big Sister." However, the young heir is half-way down the hall before the young girl can instruct him.

Hisana smiles obligingly at the lord. Her gaze, however, is distant. She doesn't quite focus on his face or linger on his eyes. She remembers him well enough from the dance.

"It is Lord Byakuya Kuchiki who I have the pleasure serving," she almost sings as she closes the door to the room.

He turns to her. His face is all smooth lines that do not bend or break as he takes seiza. Yet, despite his air of indifference, there is a wild look in his eyes. "How do you know my identity?" his voice is quiet but terse.

She bows gracefully. "You are very well known, Lord Kuchiki." As an heir to one of the Five Noble Families, he is  _famous_. She does not say the word, itself, but she does think it. "My apprentice, Ohana, is young and inexperienced. Please, forgive her ignorance," she murmurs and sits proper seiza.

He swallows hard, and she can tell that he is nervous. He has never attended a service or performance at the House, and she knows that he is not a patron. She is certain that he does not patronize  _any_ of the houses belonging to the Flower and Willow World. News of such magnitude would have flowed through the closely-knit community like water through a sieve.

"Does milord desire tea?"

He stares at her for a long moment. "Yes."

Hisana smiles at his reticence. "As you wish," she says. Slowly, she rises and disappears for a few moments. When she returns, her hands carry in items for a proper tea. "The storm rages on, milord," she begins gently.

"I wish to see you dance," he interrupts. His eyes glimmer in the warm lantern light. There is a hunger in the depths of his stare—a hunger that she has not seen or experienced in quite some time.

"As you desire, Lord Kuchiki." She bows her head, subserviently. Gracefully, she prepares the tea. Her hand movements are poised and lovely to behold. She knows each step and each motion, having practiced the art of preparing and serving tea for many long decades. When she is finished, she hands him the tea bowl, and she bows her head.

"What dance do you wish to see, Lord Kuchiki?"

"The one you danced tonight."

She approves of his selection, nodding her head. "A refined choice," she compliments him. It is her favorite dance to perform, and it is her favorite dance to watch performed.

* * *

 

He comes again a few days later. This time, however, she has left instruction  _not to refuse_  the young lord. Her time is free to him for the remainder of the month.

He is a perfect gentleman. His words, when he chooses to speak, are careful and deliberate. His choice in dance seems to echo her own longings and preferences. He does not ask for anything other than tea and dance, and she never questions his decisions on either counts.

She knows this arrangement will not last long. It simply  _cannot_. Her patron will return in less than a month's time, and, when he does return, her time will no longer be her own. Her dances will become infrequent. Her heart will chill, and her thoughts will blacken until she is numb. She tells herself that this fate is not so bad. She tells herself that it does not break her heart or weaken her spirit. The peace that blankets the room when she is with Lord Kuchiki is a fleeting thing. Should be a fleeting thing. It is rare. It is ephemeral. It is special, like cherry blossoms in spring.

Yet, she reminds herself that she can refuse any man she wishes. Her heart freezes in her chest as she thinks the thought. The sudden pain jolts her to her senses, telling her all she needs to know.

While she has a choice in the men who become her patrons, she  _cannot refuse_  the man who will soon return. She simply  _does not_ have a  _choice_  in this matter, not with this particular man. His power and rank have squelched her autonomy, rendering it merely  _theoretical_. The ability to choose and to refuse belongs to a time and to a woman whose fate is a better one than hers.

* * *

 

Byakuya comes to her one night. His arms are full with duties and chores, his countenance is grey, and his brow furrows. He is worried, she can tell. The bright flame that ordinarily lights his eyes goes dark, extinguished. The boyish smile that he flashes unexpectedly and fleetingly is nowhere to be found; instead, he regards her with a miserable look.

"You brought paperwork," she notes, careful to mind the line between teasing and playful observation.

"There is peace in your presence that eludes me at my own residence," he answers with heavy candor.

She cannot help the smile that thins her lips. It is a rare compliment from the lord, and she relishes the warmth it draws to her skin. She has not blushed in  _years_  yet the heat stings her cheeks, and her color rises.

He fixes her with a fond look. The gaze is both languid and longing, and, reflexively, he lifts his hand until his fingertips are almost brushing against the sleeve of her kimono. His restraint, however, stops him short, and he lowers his head.

Watching the chains buckle against his desires, her smile fades. "You may touch me," she murmurs, lifting her arm and turning her hand palm-side up. The long scarlet sleeve of her kimono falls back, exposing the milky white flesh of her wrist.

He lifts his head slightly at her temptation, but he refuses it without a word. His eyes drift to the tatami and then to the small pile of papers. He tucks his hands in his lap, and he inhales a deep breath.

He has never touched her. Not once. Nor has he ever come close. Until now. She has wondered if it was in his nature. Perhaps he enjoyed the art of the dance but was not inspired by its passion? She has experience with entertaining men who prefer, sexually, the company of men to women. It has never offended or bothered her.

Byakuya, however, is not one of those men. He is inspired, but he is repressed. He does not embrace the lesser base passions, but he experiences them, likely more than he would care to admit.

"While I do not wish to disturb milord's serenity, I must inquire into the row that plagues the esteemed House of Kuchiki."

Byakuya inclines his head, and his gaze focuses on her.

He is so intense at times. She can feel his eyes burn as he locks her gaze. She feels the flicker of his reiatsu as it licks against hers. If years of education and etiquette had not beaten her down, as a bridge maker beats a pile into the earth, she would have insinuated herself more forcefully. She cannot deny that his haunted stares provoke a feeling from deep inside her.

"It is the same row that has plagued my house for years now," he murmurs as if she knows, as if she has been privy to the inner workings of the Kuchiki household. (She has not.)

She smiles, settling for his obfuscation. "It must be intensely intolerable to drag milord from his warm abode into a fierce snowstorm."

"You have never met my aunt," he says, drolly. A small gleam radiates in his eyes as he speaks the words.

Hisana chuckles. Her smile lingers even after she has smothered her giggle. She understands his meaning well. Too well. A small but mighty bulldog of a woman rules her own House. "Would milord enjoy some soft music while he works? I am proficient at both the shamisen and the koto."

He blinks as if this is news to him. "Yes. The koto."

Hisana obliges him, smilingly. She chooses a quiet melody. It is low and pleasant. It does not provoke the spirit or fracture the thoughts.

Her fingers pluck at the strings, and she relishes the sting of silk against her tender flesh. There is pain in the instrument's beauty. It is a pain that she has come to appreciate, and, in periods of absence, crave, her fingers itching to feel the bite of the koto's silken strings.

Lost in thought, she barely manages a glance his direction. When she does, she is surprised to find him returning her stare. His gaze is languid but firm.

Her lips part, her breath hitches, and her cheeks burn. She does not know what this look means. His eyes are dark, and his brow grows quizzical. Some thought captures him so thoroughly that he submits, an action likely not taken without great deliberation.

"Your songs are just as somber as your dances." The observation reaches her, but barely. His voice is rich and dark, but it is broken.

What breaks him? She wonders.

"If it displeases the lord, I will select another melody."

His gaze slips down, down to her sleeve, the one that almost bushed his hand. His jaw clenches, and the shades of his countenance betray a discordant emotion.

Upon sensing his imminent unraveling, he averts his eyes to her hands, still lingering over the koto. "Please," he begins, "proceed."

She bows her head. "Yes, milord." Her fingers stretch out, prepared to play, but her will prevents her. She is  _unsettled_. The weight of his ardent stare  _unsettles_  her.

In a stroke, her heart aches, and she feels the pain of a well-mastered youth burn in the pit of her stomach. It has been  _decades_  since she last experienced hesitation's flush.

A fire grows in her chest before spreading across her whole body. Each fiber tightens until the paralysis of fear subsides.

The hesitation is subtle, costing the lord only a few quiet moments. To Hisana, however, it feels as if a lifetime has passed in the interim between hesitation and playing.

When her fingers find their places on the instrument, her heart quiets, the chill that devours her subsides, and she draws an easy breath. Relief forces her fingers to strum a happier melody, and she ignores the sting of self-conscious awareness that his stare seems to elicit within her.

"If the music is distracting," she starts upon realizing a full twenty minutes has passed and his interest has not dwindled in her performance, "I can—"

She raises her gaze. Their eyes meet. In an instant, her heart begins to thunder in her chest, and the sound of the blood coursing through her veins eclipses all other noise. With a look, he ensnares her. It is not intentional on his part. Of that fact, she is certain, but there is a yearning in his gaze that stirs her own feelings, whipping them into such a frenzy that she barely recognizes them.

He is passion imprisoned—a fire burning in a crystal case. His heart is there. It beats with purpose. It draws the blood, and it brings the life, but it is untouchable. It is untouchable not because it bids it so but because its possessor fears, if free, it will set everything aflame until only ashes remain.

Hisana rather thinks she would rejoice in feeling the heat of passion, even if its flame reduces her to ashes. Such a consequence seems preferable to the anticipation of a heat that can never come, that can never be shared.

He bends his head, and his eyes fall to the forms at his knee. He buries his attention in the sterile words printed on the stark white sheets of paper, but his eyes do not move with the steadiness of one who is reading. No, indeed, his eyes never move at all. They fixate on a single word. "Your attendant informs me that your availability diminishes after tonight."

'Diminishes' is too generous a word. Once her patron returns, she will have no availability. Her time flows to another whether she desires it or not.

"It is true, milord." Her voice is soft and even.

"Is all well?" he inquires, fingers curling around the wooden handle of his brush.

"Yes," she murmurs before returning to her koto.

She paints the room in doleful tones. She plays the chords that resonate in her heart. This month has given her wonders and pleasures alike. To have them ripped from her so completely elicits a pain that she thought she had numbed in her better years.

"I may see you again?"

She inclines her head. His question is so sweet, so timid in its execution. It adds another crack in her heart. But she must deny it. She must pretend her heart no longer exists. She must bury its sad little beat and allow it wither once more. "Once the snow melts and the rains begin."

He doesn't understand her meaning. Or, rather, he understands perfectly well, but he is overwhelmed by hope. Indeed, a hope that he has misinterpreted her blinds him. "I don't understand."

"My time becomes my own once the snow melts and the rains begin."

"Spring, then?"

She nods. "Spring, milord. After the plum blossoms have fallen."

She doesn't have the heart to return his gaze, not after seeing his whole body smart at the news. It is painful news to bear. It is an even more painful reality to endure.

She continues to play until the early hours of the morning. When she plucks her last string, the sky glows a bright gray. The sun cannot fully pierce the clouds, so heavy with snow, but it casts a faint illumination, exposing the mounds of new fallen snow that bank the establishment.

"Lord Kuchiki." It is one of the attendants, a male, who intrudes. He taps his knuckle against the wooden frame of the door a few times, and he calls again. "Lord Kuchiki."

The young lord's back straightens. Hours of grueling paperwork has sunk his posture. Patiently, he watches as she moves gracefully to the door and draws it open.

"Yes," she answers, her throat dry from hours of silence.

"Lord Kuchiki has received correspondence from his elders." With great care, the attendant slips Hisana a small envelop. The paper is thick and textured. A red ribbon and wax seal adorn it.

She gives a small bow. "Your diligence is appreciated." She, then, offers the letter to the lord, who accepts with a heavy brow. Seemingly, he anticipates the reproachful verses of his elders.

"I must take my leave." He tucks the correspondence into his robes after reading it.

She lowers her head, submissively. "Yes, milord."

He stands, perfectly poised, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in the fall of his robes. He moves to the door, where he stops. It is brief, but it is there for her to see: His hesitation.

His long, tapered fingers brush against the wood of the doorframe. There is a listlessness in his movements. There is a sadness caught in his gaze. There are words—poignant and heavy with meaning—that linger, unspoken.

Perhaps they do not need to be spoken. Maybe uttering the inevitable is poor form? A mere redundancy.

Words will not save her, she comes to realize in the heavy silence that crests over them.

Words cannot spare her the fate that the Gods have planned for her, she thinks as his reiatsu imbues her.

Words would only crush what remains of her heart.

He leaves, wordless and miserable, and she watches, wordless and miserable.

The day is long, and Hisana relishes the pitter-patter of her heart, freshly awoken. It is a fitful organ, she thinks. She thought she had conquered it, smothered whatever life had once animated it.

She has not. It still beats. It still bleeds. Right now, it weeps.

A somber cadence drums in her chest as she receives her patron. He is wealthy, owning several mansions across the Seireitei and dressing in the finest silk garments that money can purchase. He is also very strong. Stories of his conquests and achievements permeate the Flower and Willow World.

' _He's so handsome_ ,' They say.

' _He's so accomplished,'_  They whisper among themselves.

' _He's so brutal,'_  she thinks to herself upon receiving him.

Indeed, he is a very brutal man. His weapons are words, glances, his wit, and, sometimes, his hands. He can be piercing and cruel. He can be wicked and devious. On rare occasion, he can be cordial, even vulnerable. She hates the latter—vulnerability. It makes it difficult to loathe him wholesale. Perhaps that is just another piece of his wicked nature, of his manipulations? He weaves stories of ambition thwarted, and he pulls at the strings of her barely-there heart.

 _Having a heart is such a burden_ , she thinks with a small sigh.

A cold gust enters the room on his presence.

Hisana represses the urge to shudder. Instead, she transmutes the unnecessary kinetic motion into a bow. She stretches forward, low and graceful on the floor. Her muscles burn as each fiber pulls, taut and elongated. "Lord," she whispers to the tatami.

She refuses his name. To speak the word would make this too real, too hideous. It would mean that she was truly at his service until spring.

Abject misery stains her face. The emotion manifests briefly, but he sees it all the same. He sees it, and he smiles. "Dear Hisana," he says rather casually, as if he is about to offer her favor. "Stand," he commands.

She complies, ever the obedient. Years of rigid schooling and years of subjugation bid her heart still and quiet. There is no use in delaying the inevitable. There is no use at all. He is her better in every imaginable way, and he will best her until she submits herself fully to the task of pleasing him, and what a daunting task that is.

So, with heart sinking like a stone into the depths of a fine oblivion, she acquiesces. Her natural,  _stubborn_  inclinations begin to recede. Whatever she once felt in the past month washes away in the tide of his breathing.

With a faraway look catching in her eyes, she lifts her head. Her eyes fix in his direction, but they see only the middle distance. She has become very good at gazing into the abyss that stretches between them.

His touch is cold, like death, but she remains steadfast. Her commitment to her House forces her into a dark, numbness as she refuses the chill that climbs up her spine, vertebra by vertebra.

Caressingly, he sweeps the fall of her hair into his hand, and he presses his lips against her neck.

Hisana closes her eyes. The pitter-patter of her heart ceases, and she imagines it is beginning to flake away, like a dead leaf in autumn. Her mind, however, is not so eager to submit to his affections. Indeed, all she can think of is prey. He is the lion with his mouth bearing down on her neck, and she is the poor antelope or gazelle that the lion strips of its hide before consuming it.

The moment of devouring is nigh. She feels the tension in the room as it curls around her. Its icy fingers capture her, hold her down. Again, her obsequious heart falters, fleeing when she needs it most.

When he reaches for her obi, unraveling her bow with a few tugs, she grimaces. The lines of her face deepen and contort the moment she feels the slack of her robes. Bile, sour and acidic, rises to her mouth, but she finds it within her to swallow, and not a moment too soon as he thumbs back her many layers.

A protest slips from her lips in the form of a small whimper when he grips the tops of her arms. His hands are large, and they are powerful. Against her soft, supple skin, they feel like manacles. The idea of being restrained fells her, laying her bare and cold, until she cannot hold back the cry that burns in her throat. When it finally falls from her lips, she feels exposed. Her eyes snap open, and she flinches, prepared for his strike.

Her Lord is pleased at her resistance. He sees it as a challenge. He tells her that he always enjoys a woman who is hesitant to submit to his desires.

Fear chills Hisana's heart, freezing it in place. She does not believe this. Not in the slightest. He is a man who wants what he wants when he wants it. He is a child, and, like a child, he takes without remorse or condition.

The feel of his lips, wet and plump, against her mouth shatter what is left her resolve. Suddenly, the world rips away from her mind until only the blackness remains.

Black, black, black.

She slips away into the abyss that stretches between them. He is so close, but the distance between them feels yawning. In this proximity, she takes some modicum of solace, allowing her poor, fractured thoughts to wander. Usually, they flit to distant, happier times, when she was alive in a different world. That night, however, they seek comfort in the recent past. Where they go is a painful place. They seek the warmth and contentedness of her days spent dancing and making music. They seek the intensity of another's attention.

That other man, however, is so very far away. He should have never been. She should have never let him in. Her apprentice should have refused him entry.

With practiced anticipation, she sinks against the futon. Her hands are skilled from years of rote tying and untying knots, whether it be silk, wool, or muscle. No matter, she thinks. She knows the steps to this routine just as well as she knows the steps to the dances she loves.

Briefly, she wonders what it would feel like to be in another's arms tonight.

When her patron finishes, she collects herself. Nimble are the fingers that lace herself together. An untrained eye would not know the difference. It would not see the marks of soulless love-making. It would know catch the telltale signs of emotional battery.

This continues for several long weeks. As predictable as the seasons, her patron comes, takes what he wishes, ignores the rest, and leaves. Nary a word is spoken in the interim. Conversation is kept to an absolute minimum. Indeed, her lord makes his wishes known through physicality alone.

He comes. He takes. He leaves.

Spring. Summer. Fall. Only winter remains in the time between their encounters.

Hisana watches the sky with a grand eagerness, willing the snow clouds to break and to give way to the spring. She will not be content until the first plum blossom has unfurled. If she must wait, at the very least, she should have the comfort of the colorful abundance of spring, not the stark barrenness of winter.

"The Lord has been detained on family business," her attendant tells her. His voice is gentle, as if he knows of her torture and does not wish to bring her more of the same. "He sends his immense regrets." Solemnly, the attendant enters the room, bearing a small wrapped parcel in his hands. "From the Lord."

Hisana frowns. Her lips pull down at the sight of the gift, and she sighs. If only she knew of words that could match her discontent, she would scream them. But, alas, the common tongue denies her the privilege.

"Thank you, Dai." There is no need to be rude to her attendant. He serves her well and faithfully.

As a token of her gratitude, she bows her head low.

"No need, Fair One." He hands her the parcel, and he turns to leave, but, before his stride carries him across the threshold, he pauses.

Hisana does not miss this hesitation. It is a rare sight from Dai. Usually, his mind is laser-focused as he moves from one task to another. "Is there?" she begins, but he interrupts her.

"A dance, Fair One?" he gives her a quiet over-the-shoulder glance. A storm cloud passes across his gaze. In his blue eyes, there is worry, and there is hope. It proves to be a potent mixture, and she consents with a small tilt of her head.

"Just one."

_For old time's sake._

His stormy expression goes smooth, and he nods. A budding resolve clears the clouds from his eyes. "I will fetch the little ones."

Hisana should have known. Part of her had gathered as much the moment her attendant took his leave. Part of her  _knew_. It is the part of her that she tries to smother.

It took one month to unearth her heart, but it took so much longer to bury. Hymns, dirges, a funeral—it still refuses her gilded casket. It refuses to stop, like a river in winter. It has unfrosted. It flows. It lives. It moves.

She exhales a heavy, long breath. Her eyes shut, and she lets go.

Seemingly, when she opens them, she is standing, garbed in her dancing silks. The smooth lacquer wood of a fan presses against her palm. Its weight is light, and the leaves, when they flutter open, are brilliant shades of red and yellow.

She is a fire.

She begins small, barely a flicker. Then, she grows. Steadily, she becomes self-possessed. Her movements become more exaggerated, grander. But, it cannot last. Like all things—the living or the dead—it dies. She becomes a mere ember. Then, as she began, she ends—a flicker.

Closing her fan, she surveys the audience, searchingly. Her mind is slow to discern what spurs her yearning glances, but the heart knows. It flutters like a hummingbird's wings.

The wood of her fan clacks together, closed. She bows, wishing her heart would obey her demands. She wishes it would fade to black, like the stage lights after her performance.

She prefers the dark, Hisana tells herself. No one can see her, then. She can be elated, dismayed, or apathetic in the velvety blackness. She can be  _anything_ , anything at all, in the dark.

Hisana has become proficient at fading away. She fades into the abyss of the perfumed world that she inhabits. She fades into the roles of her performances, whether it be dance, song, or the tender nighttime caress. Bled of her shades, she feels free. Her mind wanders, fitful and alone. But, it is free. Her body may be tethered to her low place in the pecking order that is Soul Society, but parts of her remain obstinate. She is more than her place. She is more than her past. She is more than her sins. She is a stubborn flame.

Wordless, she traces her way to her room. The corridors are empty, and there is a burning chill in the air. Air, biting and harsh, stings at her cheeks. She does not know why—why the sensation proves so fierce.

She does not know why until she closes the door behind her. She does not know why until her fingers trace the trail of damp skin spanning her cheek.

_Tears?_

How she has unraveled.

She shoves the needling pinpricks of emotion down. Deep. Deeper. Deepest. It will take an expedition to retrieve them from her depths, now.

With a mind as vacant as the corridors outside her room, she moves to the bath. It is a blur, an orange blur, as she undresses. Layer by layer, she sheds her silk. She sheds her white mask. She sheds every stitch of her armor. Then, she sinks into the soaking tub, where she plans to drown her heart and emotions.

An hour passes like a void.

When she emerges from the white haze of the bathroom, she shrugs on a tattered kimono. Its fabric is scratchy, and it has long since lost its brilliance, but she finds comfort in its embrace.

Hasty fingers fashion a belt at the waist, and she kneels before her mirror.

Just as she reaches for her comb, she turns to the door. It is reflexive, as if a thread has pulled her attention to the threshold. "Lord Kuchiki." His name feels private in her mouth, even more private as it rolls off her tongue, like she has unleashed some scandalizing secret. Her voice is quiet, intrigued, as if she has been expecting him to turn up at her door.

"Your attendant mentioned." He stops, eating his words. There is a struggle in his glances. A war wages in his heart, and the battalion of good sense slowly begins to tighten his throat.

She pulls the teeth of the comb to the ends of her hair, listening to him intently. "Enter," she murmurs, as if he had finished.

Cautious, he crosses her threshold. He steps with a light foot, barely making a sound. He sits in his usual manner, in his usual place. Knees pressed against a cushion. Cushion creasing under his weight.

Once he settles, she moves to his side, careful that her head is never higher than his. Without hesitation, she takes his hands in hers. She could tell by his glances that he wanted the touch, but he did not know the incantation. He did not know the steps, heart guarded but trembling. He wears his vulnerability well. Too well. You could almost miss it completely.

He does not pull away. His muscles, once tense, melt into her hand. Warmth imbues her. His warmth. Her warmth. Their essences fill the room, combining in an enchanting dance.

Her heart sings. The song is quiet, somber, but there is a contentedness in her chest that swells, like a balloon. Long days have passed since she last felt so blithe. Not since the World of the Living has she experienced such happiness.

A smile slips from her lips, and her gaze slide to the floor. No. She feels exposed, suddenly. It is an improper way to hold herself out to the Lord. A proper woman of her rank does not expose her bliss. A proper woman of her rank maintains a thousand-mile-stare at all times. Proper women do not expose their feelings. It isn't about them, after all. It is about the men they serve. Their feelings, happiness, and goals are nothing. They are merely tools meant to serve a singular purpose, and that purpose is  _pleasure_. Not  _their_  pleasure, mind you, but the pleasure of their benefactors.

Byakuya musters the courage to meet her gaze. The young lord's porcelain-white complexion turns a light shade of peach, and his gaze grows shifty. "Please, accept my apologies," he murmurs at the tatami. "I," tongue-tied and with color fast rising to his cheeks, Byakuya swallows his words.

Hisana's lips lengthen. Her smile is small, but it is knowing. His heart, reputed to be so cold, stirs. She knows. She can feel his pulse begin to race. His reiatsu folds over them, growing with each breath.

"Have I displeased, milord?" Her words are low, breathy.

He has to pay close attention to make out the raspy syllables. And, unconsciously, he leans closer to her. When he realizes the proximity between them is minimal, his cheeks flush. "I," he begins again, and he squeezes her hand in his, "have never felt like this before."

Fear breaks in the waves of his voice. This emotion intrigues Hisana. Never once did she think the Lord capable of  _fear_. He is so proud, so certain, and his hands are so hardened from years wielding a blade, she has difficulty fathoming him as anything but controlled and poised.

"Please, forgive my insistence tonight. It is unbecoming," he murmurs, gaze trailing to the walls. He can look anywhere, anywhere except her.

Her lips lengthen into a soothing smile. "Milord," she murmurs, and she leans forward. Her hair spills over her shoulders like inky waterfalls, and the red fabric of her kimono rustles as she gently tucks a stray hair behind his ear.

He closes his eyes, and, instinctively, his body moves into the warmth of her touch. There is a craving in him, and she will not deny him the small sanctuary that her touch seems to bring him.

The pressure in her fingertips grows until her palm is cupping his cheek.

Upon feeling the heat of her hand sink in, his gaze flickers to her. It is a mistake, she thinks. But, he is ensnared, tangled in a glance that he does not have the courage to break.

He is young. He doesn't know what to do. Hasn't mastered the steps. Briefly, she wonders if he has ever had a woman. Even kissed a girl? No. He is caught in the spaces between knowing what to do and not knowing the execution.

She remembers it well. Intoxicated by the possibility, by the novelty. Men who know what to do, don't remember to take their time, to indulge in the excitement of the possibility.

Her expression softens, and she begins to withdraw.

His lips part, and his head bobs up. A request flickers across his visage, but he stifles it. Only his eyes belie his internal conflict. He wants, but he does not know how to take.

"Tea?" It is an observation wrapped as an offer.

He never questions it. His silence is deafening. So deafening, she can barely concentrate as she prepares the tea. It is a figurative life-and-death struggle just to remember what goes where and when. Yet, somehow, someway she manages.

"What does milord desire?" she asks as she hands him his tea bowl.

Byakuya, however, does not respond.

"Milord's thoughts must be heavy as the snow clouds," she says, teasingly. The pointedness of her voice, however, disrupts his thoughts, and he responds with a small lull of his head.

"It would not have to do with milord's birthday preparations?" she continues, a smile lengthening her lips.

He blinks a few times, as if his thoughts have dusted up. "How do you know of my birthday?" He asks the question, but he does not seem in the least surprised.

"I may have inquired." A glance is all it takes to quell his curiosity.

It is a lie.

When one entertains the heir to the Kuchiki fortune, one need not  _inquire_  about him. One is merely  _inundated_ with knowledge from everyone that learns of such an affiliation. Indeed, Hisana's Mistress recounted  _every_  Kuchiki patron the House has had the pleasure of entertaining. Her fellow colleagues, too, were quick to pepper Hisana with  _everything_  they knew of the Kuchiki, from their servants to their suppliers. Apparently, no tidbit is too trivial or  _private_  that it cannot be divulged.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and his gaze falls to his lap. "The winter has been harsh," he murmurs, words dark and cryptic.

She waits, patiently, for him to continue. When he does not, she politely interrupts the silence. "Indeed. The snow has dampened the festivities."

"When—" he stops.

Silence ensues.

Funny how the silence seems more bearable in his presence, her traitorous mind muses. The nothingness and the void seem perfectly light. She can breathe trapped in a moment with him.

Without him, however, the silence begins to weigh on her. It eats at her soul, twists her thoughts, until oblivion promises to overtake her, like the inky waves of the ocean at twilight.

She waits patiently for him to continue.

He never does. Instead, he drinks, not from the tea bowl but from the sake that she always, absently, sets.

One cup.

Two cups.

Three cups.

He drinks in quick succession, which makes her wonder.  _Why?_ Her imagination (or is it experience?) comes up with a few answers. The "tink" of porcelain against porcelain drums up a new explanation.

_He is nervous?_

Tink.

_He doesn't know what to say?_

Tink.

_Is he trying to find his resolve?_

After the fourth quaff, he pulls her close. The temerity that once locked his fingers is gone. His fleeting stares and pink blush stop. He has her. His long fingers wrap around her wrist, and her body obeys his guidance.

Close. Closer. A hairsbreadth away.

Her breath catches in her throat. Her mind draws a blank. Never before has she waited with such anticipation for the inevitable. A month together and a month apart has not prepared her for this.

She feels like a novice. As if she has never been kissed. As if she has never been drawn into the arms of a man.

Then, she submits. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Breath stopped cold in her chest. Her head lolls to the side. A small shiver crawls up her spine, setting her muscles a flutter.

He takes.

His mouth is warm. His lips are supple. He smells of sake and spice and  _male_.

When she feels he might pull away, her fingers clasp his forearms. It is a small plea, and he takes mercy on her and deepens the kiss.

It is foolish of her. She doesn't do this. She isn't this woman. She is cold, aloof. She performs for a  _price_. Love is a transaction. She doesn't relent. She doesn't submit to whatever this is. To do so will leave her broken, bleached, and shattered on the rocks of expectation and fleeting fancy.

At the last moment, she abandons herself.

She deepens the kiss at her peril, feeling each wave of relief crash down on her.

She is in the arms of a man who is ethical and considerate.  _Relief_. His kisses are gentle, but they belie a passion carefully chained.  _Relief_. He speaks in verse and enjoys the ephemeral.  _Relief._  His touch is soft, unsure, and his mouth is quick to guide but even quicker to follow.  _Relief_.

Their shadows, inky and wispy, write poetry on the walls, and, in the midst of their sonnet, Hisana finds respite.

 _Clack_.

The splintering sound of wood meeting wood breaks the spell.

The door cracks back. A blinding rectangle of light crawls fast across the floor. The darkness peels back until the lovers are spotlighted in the warm yellow effulgence.

Cold full stops. Muscles tensing, locking. Hisana opens her eyes, but it takes much effort to turn her head.

She is prey. The man at the door is her hunter. And she has been caught. Her snare is the arms of another man. Her tether is the stare she shares with Byakuya. Her poison is a kiss.

"Lord Kuchiki." The name sounds so alien coming from the lips of her patron.

"Lord Akamatsu," Byakuya's soft baritone barely breaches the oppressive silence that blankets them.

Hisana turns her head. Her body goes cold, and she frowns at the floor. If only she could muster an ounce of shame or remorse or regret, then she could return her patron's looming stare. But, she cannot. She feels  _nothing_  at her betrayal. Her heart is an empty pit, as deep as the ocean and as infinite as the heavens.

Perhaps this is the emotion that gives way to  _murder_? a dark, violent part of her wonders. She stuffs this thought away, smothered below countless other thoughts.

"Hisana," her lord murmurs, voice bladed.

It should have cut her, but there is nothing left of her for him. There is only flesh. There is only possession. There is nothing else. Only the vessel, but not the heart.

She turns her head in a slow, graceful arch. Oblivion weighs heavy in her eyes. Not even a scintilla of contrition knits her brows. There is the deepest  _nothing_  in her gaze.

Her Lord smiles down at her. A corner of his lip curls at what he finds, and the light catches in his eyes at the delight of her treachery.

"Lord Kuchiki, I believe your time has elapsed."

Hisana turns her cheek.  _A forfeit._

What happens next?

She doesn't quite recall. For an hour, she feels as if she has been plunged into the ocean, left to sink. The world goes mute. The light goes dark. The pain, it flashes and crackles, but she doesn't quite know where she's been hit. Her heart? Her chest? Her legs? Her face?

Only morning will tell.

When she wakes, she feels unlike herself. She feels drugged. She feels soulless. She feels deader than dead.

She stares into the snow. It drifts past her in sheets. The flakes are large, fluffy. Their icy chill hits her, pierces her, and rattles around her bones, but she does not move. She remains steadfast. Icy amethyst eyes stare vacantly into the arctic landscape.

It is for the best. Only pain and misery should vest to her. After all she's done….

"Miss Hisana!"

She does not turn to her guard. She barely hears him. The sound of the falling snow eclipses his words.

"Miss Hisana!" his voice intensifies as he crosses into her room.

Again, she ignores him. The wind is at her now, tugging at her silks and begging to keep her attention.

"Miss Hisana!"

His hands are at her robes. Fingers tangle in her silk, catching in her hair, until she turns.

"The lady will catch a cold."

His hands are large, palms warm, fingers bury into the tops of her arms.

It takes her a moment to move, to understand. His words melt into her, and she complies. Her body is pliant, and her movements are graceful.

"Is the lady well?"

He continues to pelt her with questions as he brushes the snow from her shoulders and hair.

Hisana blinks, hoping for clarity. It never comes. She continues to stare, eyes glassy.

"Tea," her guard mumbles to himself.

Before she can respond, he is out the door and down the hall.

It is just as well, she thinks to herself.

Feeling the warmth radiating from the hearth, she sheds the remnants of snow that has collected in her hair.

Effortlessly, she sheds her wet layers. As soundless as the snow falling on the birch trees, she moves to collect her garments. Hands flutter from one tie to the next as she carefully pieces herself together.

"Tea?" This time, it is her "sister," not in blood but in practice, who stands before her.

Absently, Hisana accepts the tea bowl and takes a sip.

"I'm sorry," her sister continues, words bubbling forth without restraint. "I didn't know that you were entertaining Lord Kuchiki." Remorse and regret pour from the girl.

Hisana turns her back and utters a cool, "Please, leave me." Her soul is a tundra. Perhaps there has always been a touch of winter in her. But, now, where there was once heat, it is only dark, and it is only frigid.

Before her sister crosses into the hallway, Hisana stops the girl with a request. "Paper, perfume, a brush, and the finest ink."

"Yes, ma'am!"

When her sister returns, Hisana begins to pen a letter. Lavishly rendered characters sprawl down the paper. Her heart beats faintly in her chest as the words flood from her fingertips. Carefully, she seals the letter into an envelope. There is a tenderness in her touch as she hands the envelope to her sister and gives her instructions.

With baited breath and with a drumming heart, she waits for his return.

He does not disappoint her.

Where she had once only admired his taste, his poise, his restraint, and his honor, she slowly begins to fall in love with his words, his thoughts, his motivations, and his very fine calligraphy. He loves the moonlight. He craves the burn of physical endurance. He shoulders the responsibility of duty. He quibbles with his superiors, and he fights his natural inclination to voice his disapprobation. The chains that weigh down his visceral tendencies must be thick and heavy.

There is poetry in his soul, and there is fire in his depths. Perhaps his heat will melt her. Perhaps it has already begun to thaw her frost. Perhaps  _she_ is the flower in Byakuya's poem that, in spring, still clings to the chill of winter.

Hisana drops her gaze from the gray garden to the poem in her hands.

_Mourning spring flower_

_Clings to the chill of winter_

_Pale red and pleasing  
_

She reads the words a third time. Worriment fills her heart. It is a strange ineffable thing that grows in her chest and tightens her throat. Has the Lord judged her? Has he assessed her as beyond hope or inspiration?

Her gaze trails to the garden. Mud stretches across patches of what once was only snow.  _Spring_ , she thinks to herself. Relief loosens the tension in her shoulders and chest.

Soon, she shall be free from the oppressive nearness of her patron. Soon, she will be free to dance at festivals and relish the sounds of merrymaking. Soon, the white plum blossoms will unfurl a befitting white flag for her patience.

"Miss Hisana," her assistant's voice is soft, hesitant.

"Enter," Hisana murmurs, folding her letter before acknowledging the young girl kneeled at her threshold.

Without a word, the girl enters holding a small book. "Your social engagements tonight."

Hisana accepts and gives a small nod. "Very well." Her voice greets the prospect of a farewell dinner with her patron with little joy.

"The guests, Sister," the girl chirps, hoping to pipe some warmth into the desolate chamber.

Hisana turns her attention to the list of attendees. A sweeping stare confirms her suspicions—the same ole, same ole—that is  _until_  she sees the last name. Immediately, her heart stops, her throat closes, and she forgets how to breathe.

"Is all well, Sister?"

Hisana's hands tremble, and the pink from her cheeks bleeds away.

"Sister?" Without prompting, her little sister takes the paper from Hisana's fingers, and she begins to stroke Hisana's arm. "Is there something amiss? Did I make a mistake?"

Hisana shakes her head. "No." The answer is half-hearted, but it is honest. "Please, confirm my attendance," Hisana instructions once she has regained possession of her wits.

"Yes, Sister."

Alone with only her thoughts, Hisana inhales a long breath.  _How could he?_  She fumes to herself.  _How could he be so callous? So cruel?_

It shouldn't surprise her. Her patron's propensity for malice is well-documented. He is known for his brutality on the battlefield and in the halls of the Chambers. To call upon Lord Kuchiki is a parting gift of sorts, she suspects. Maybe it is a test of loyalty?

Hisana scoffs at the thought.

If her loyalty is in question, then her patron will be sorely disappointed with the answer.

 _Perhaps the winter chill clings to the flower_ , she muses for a moment before shaking the thoughts of poetry and fine calligraphy.

Night comes, evading the spaces of her quarters and summoning her into its shades.

Hisana arrives early at the banquet hall with little ceremony. Over the years, she has grown tired of the processions, even if she respects the mores that comes with her place in the hierarchy of  _things_. Hisana, however, has always preferred the simple to the lavish—a preference that has yet to threaten her popularity as either a performer or companion.

"Hisana," the proprietor bows upon seeing her. "How are you feeling tonight?" his voice is strained and low, like the sound of old oak bending in the wind.

"Like the midnight air," she responds playfully.

"Light and playful?" he responds, hopeful.

_No. Bitter and indifferent._

She forces a coy smile and a chuckle. "You know me too well."

He beams. "Of course! Since you were but a small apprentice yourself!"

A graceful nod of her head proves to be a sufficient parting gesture. Attendants escort her to the banquet room reserved for the party. The tables have been set. Food, sake, and cushions have been placed with such exactness. Lord Akamatsu would prefer it no other way. If any of the items was even a millimeter out of line, the night could end in tragedy.

Hisana crosses the floor and pulls back a panel to reveal the night. Its air stings, raising the color of her cheeks to a bright pink. Yet, despite her discomfort, she continues to stare into the starlight. The moon hangs full and fat above her, like a proud god.

A smile cracks her forlorn expression, and her gaze trails to the side. Like a spider, she waits.

"You enjoy stargazing?" his quiet voice sounds somewhat surprised at this finding.

Her lips lengthen at his question, and she turns her head to catch a glimpse of the Kuchiki Lord dressed in blue. "Your poems convinced me there is no greater calling than that of the stars."

A small grin pulls the corner of his lips up, and he bows his head.

It felt so long. Her heart beats like the wings of a sparrow at the sight of him. How strange how the presence of one person could inspire such devotion. In her many years, she has never experienced such senseless affection.

"While the stars are beautiful, milord, I believe there are other, grander things to behold." A blush gives her meaning away wholesale.

Byakuya, however, stands somewhat stunned at her confession.

And, for a brief moment, she wonders if he has never been the subject of woman's regards. Hisana immediately rejects the thought. As heir of the Kuchiki clan, capturing his attention likely sparks the fantasies of a thousand women. But, does he even know?

"Perhaps," he responds and crosses the room.

Obligation sends her back a few steps, lengthening the distance between them. It is improper, she thinks to herself. But, there comes a time when her feet refuse her mind and heed her heart. She stands, waiting for him with back turned to the room and eyes set on the moon.

He is tentative. Hands apprehensively rest on the tops of her shoulders as he stares into the night. The pressure of his palms against her sends a ripple through her. His heat sparks the small flame that resides in her heart. Once so desolate, she almost forgets it is there, slowly suffocating, but, under his touch, it immediately flares up.

"You're early," she murmurs, but her syllables splinter the moment she feels her hair tumble to her shoulders. The ribbons that held her hair are gone. She feels their silken caress as he pulls them away.

Before she can collect her wits, he sweeps her hair up and pins it. With what? She cannot see, but she assumes it is carries some sentimental value, if not monetary value, to the Lord.

"It suits you," his breath is warm against the shell of her ear, and he presses a small kiss against the nape of her neck.

"Lord Kuchiki, you should not—" before she can finish, their privacy is pierced.

"Lord Akamatsu's retinue has arrived," the proprietor warns from outside the door. He stares inside the hall with a knowing gleam lodged in his eyes, and he smiles at the pair.

Her secret is safe with the proprietor. Money binds his tongue. He would never jeopardize his financial relationship with her mistress to gossip monger. Surely, these walls have better stories to tell if such was his intention.

The evening goes well enough. Hisana dotes on her patron as her class requires of her. She keeps still and speaks only when necessary. Mostly, she keeps her gazes distant and her thoughts locked inside her head.

Lord Akamatsu, however, is no man's fool. When he entered the room, he was quick to observe Byakuya's punctuality, noting that it was endearing. The Lord was even quicker to spy her new kanzashi.

Hisana swallows under her Lord's gaze, and, obediently, she fills his cup while geisha dance for the party. Her patron gives her a skeptical sidelong glance. His gaze burns her as it catches the elaborate kanzashi. Unable to help himself, he touches one of the red streams of flowers fluttering from her hairpin.

Immediately, Hisana turns her head and locks eyes with her patron. "Is the dance not to Milord's liking?" she whispers.

His lips twitch. Lines of dissatisfaction crystalize his features. In an instant, Hisana knows she is in for a spectacle, and she readies her heart.

A word, gentle and generous escaped a lord at the table. He is a respected captain of the ranks, and his boozy glances and laughter captured her. His request—made in jest—will be rewarded as soon as she realizes her patron's intention.

 _Perhaps Hisana will grace us with a dance?_  The captain had asked, eyes glimmering but intentions hidden.

"Perhaps we shall give the artisans here a needed reprieve," her patron announces, brazen in his words and boldly gesturing to Hisana.

Demurely, her gaze falls to the floor. An otherworldly glance and a bow of her head both acknowledge and protest her lord's actions.

"Hisana, please, show us the art of dance."

She nearly blanches at her patron's words. The lovely geisha also stare, wide-eyed and shamed. At her lord's word, Hisana obliges. Apprehension builds in her mien, and her intuition fails her when her gaze meets Lord Kuchiki, who sits still, unreadable.

She feels his anxiety despite his fortressed façade. There is a horror in his stare that she dares not to match or acknowledged. Instead, she stands, ready to perform.

She is without a fan. And, for a moment, she hesitates. A generous geisha offers her fan, but Hisana refuses. She must. She cannot possibly think to strip a performer of her prize once she has usurped her. It would be impolite. It is impolite as it is.

Instead, Hisana pulls the kanzashi from her hair. Her raven locks come tumbling down. She pretends not to notice despite her humiliation. Instead, she holds the gift up, proudly displaying the affection of the man whose heart is reputed to be composed of icy shards, sharp and ruthless.

The beautiful scarlet flowers will be her prop. She will dance an ode to its beauty, to the love imbued within the trinket.

The room expects a dance of lovers parted. Her lord is to leave tomorrow to go on a tour of the disputed areas of Rukongai. Part of her wishes her homeland takes him and conquers his soul.

Part of her is hateful and unrepentant.

Slowly, she begins. Her movements are measured. Her poises are small, delicate. Lovelorn but parted. Something beyond the lovers' control separates them. A war? Mother nature? Status? The details are a whirlwind—undecipherable. Whatever it is—all of it or none of it—keeps the men  _and_ the geisha watching. It doesn't matter, Hisana decides as she finishes.

Her final pose?

She holds the kanzashi to her heart.

 _Defiance_.

First, she meets Byakuya's gaze. He sits, transfixed. When the final beat washes over him, his eyes widen, and his lips separate. Her announcement of her heart, while subtle, grips him in a way that surprises him.

Her lord, however, stares. He understands her meaning. The simple act of using the kanzashi and placing it to her heart has only one meaning: She has denied her patron's heart, and she has chosen another.

Rage simmers in her patron's gaze. And, in a second, his eyes are on the young Kuchiki lord. He has discerned the riddle, and there is blood in his eyes.

A slow clap crescendos over her, and Hisana takes her bow. Even the geisha sit in amazement, some of whom begin to mimic some of the movements in Hisana's dance, as if they must commit them to memory to repurpose for another dance.

Hisana returns to her patron.

No one else knows of her treachery. The captain, the high lord, the merchant, and the lesser lord smile politely and drink from their sake cups. Byakuya, however, remains frozen, as if he has not quite come to terms with the meaning of her dance. When reality breaches him, he takes a breath, and a small, satisfied smile bends his lips.

Lord Akamatsu, however, is visibly upset, and dismisses himself from the gathering. Gripping Hisana's hand in his as he announces his retirement, he pulls her after him. If she will not give her devotion willingly, then he must demand it.

And, demand it he does.

Hands ball into fists.

Words slice into her, threatening to cut her as sure as a blade through her supple skin.

She will be his.

She must profess her love.

Most of all, she must give her loyalty to him and him alone.

He shouts at her, praying for her to speak the words.

She, however, cannot. Instead, she sobs, strewn across the floor. Her robes sprawl out around her, and her hair flows to the ground, wet with tears.

A small struggle, and he forces the kanzashi from her fingers. Anger flows through him. His hands tremble under great restraint, but he cannot help himself. He takes the end of the hairpin, and he plunges it deep inside her.

All she sees are stars. A velvety blanket falls across her vision, and she submits, praying for sweet release. To die would only release her from her pledge, from her burden.

Something, however, stops her lord's rage.

She does not know what, though. She can only assume for she awakens not as a life reborn but in her room.

Her shoulders and breast are wrapped with white bandages, and her body shivers. A fever has taken her, and she submits to the ensuing exhaustion.

When she awakens again, she lifts her gaze to find Lord Kuchiki looming over her. His features are set, so serious. When their eyes lock, she smiles, thinking it but a dream. "My sweet Lord," she murmurs, dreamily. "It is only fair that I die declaring my allegiance to you."

For once, Hisana means it. After so many years of false "I love yous," and "You have my devotion,"  _now_  she feels the pulse of love while in the throes of death.

Her eye lids fall, but her smile remains, untouched.

The last thing she remembers is the gentle warmth of his lips against the back of her hand.

When she reemerges from her slumber, she is alone. The twilight has invaded her room, leaving nothing but the stark reality that she will solider through this. How? Why? These questions go unanswered.

Perhaps they will never be answered.

Spring falls, and she heals in the quite solitude of her quarters. Her sisters visit her, and they converse over the meaning of love and how to handle the opposite sex. Hisana finds the latter advice hollow. Decades have passed and she still has no idea what to make of the male gender.

She has loved.

She has lost.

She has played the roles of pretender, of supplicant, and of victim.

Only once has she felt the warm intensity of fondness as it began to ferment into something else. Never fully formed, she refuses to speculate on the nature of love. Instead, she guides her apprentices on the art of deception. If they have not known the cruel hand of life to draw their tears, then they may pluck at their eyelashes to draw the tears while they profess their love when their patrons leave. They may stare, unblinkingly, until their eyes burn with the emotion they hope will endear their callers.

Hisana shares her remedies to slow moments, to awkward behavior, to long pauses. She tells her girls not to expect love. Their profession merely deals in transactions. Whatever keeps the men coming back.

Yet, she stares through the bars that keep her contained. She may never leave this floating world, glimmering only to the free.

The winter's snow melts.

The spring begins to color the world in vibrant floral hues. Pink, orange, white, purple, and red surround her. None of the festivities lifts her spirits as she recovers. Instead, she searches, wondering if he will ever return. If her patron will take her back.

His chill. His violence. His cruelty. Somehow, she realizes that it is what she craves. She deserves only the worst, most degrading affection. She deserves the violence. She needs the pain. How else can she atone?

Love, however, finds her among the plum blossoms.

It comes fast.

She doesn't remember the words. (Were there words?) She doesn't remember anything except the feeling of his lips against hers, and the urgent way he grasped her, as if she was going burst into blossoms and leave him on some capricious wind.

It is a fantastic affair.

She refuses his patronage, but she takes him all the same.

He kisses her in the alleys, without remorse.

She entices him in a teahouse, and he holds her fast against a wall, where she submits fully to her desires.

She prays the heat of their affection will render her to ash and that she will scatter on the breeze.

She, however, remains. Pinned against a wall, lips locked. Buried under his body, ever warm and inviting. Fingers buried in his flesh or, even better, his silken tresses, dark as midnight.

The last cherry blossom falls under her watchful gaze. They lay sprawled on blankets, barely dressed, with only the branches as cover. A solemn tear falls from the corner of her eye and trails across her cheek.

Summer draws nigh.

Her patron will return. She has received his missives, contrite and full of promises.

Her lover wipes her tear with the joint of his thumb. "They always return," he murmurs reassuringly into her ear.

A somber smile bends her lips. "Milord is too kind," she whispers and plants a kiss against his brow.

"I love you," he says, voice steady and sure.

Hisana blanches at his confession. Before she can answer, tears build in her gaze, threatening to burst forth. "Please," she begs, hoping he will take back his words. He cannot love her. Lord Kuchiki is a man of honor. He must marry for his clan, for his rank, for his pride.

She is nothing—a floating petal in the forest of life.

"Please," she murmurs, brows bent over sad, gleaming eyes. "I am not—"

He does not permit her to finish. "I want nothing more than for you to be by my side. Always."

She wants to accept. Her heart swells, and her chest feels as if it may burst with happiness. But, she does not deserve  _happiness_. She cannot have his  _love_.

Her patron's cruelty is the only kindness she must know. She has to atone for her past sins, and, in the arms of Lord Kuchiki, there is no atoning for her sins. There is only warmth and mutual affection.

Her actions do not merit  _love_ , especially  _reciprocal love_.

To pay for her sins, she must  _suffer_. It isn't fair any other way. Not to her. Not to her sister. Not even to her fair lord.

Only Lord Akamatsu can punish her in the way that she needs to suffer. His cutting tongue lashes her like a whip to flesh. His hands bruise her until her flesh purples. His love is poison, and she must drink and drink until death fells her.

"Lord Akamatsu returns in a week," Byakuya states, voice unusually cold and dry.

"I know," she whispers, as if the softness of her words will stop his return.

Drawing her fast against his chest, Byakuya murmurs into her hair, "You are free."

It takes her a moment to understand.  _Free_. The word seems so unfamiliar, as if it is only meant for  _other_  people. Noble people. Peasants.  _Not her_.

"You are permitted to leave whenever you wish."

Realization crashes down upon her like a tsunami. With wild eyes, she turns her head up, and she stares intensely into his face. "I don't understand."

"Your contract has expired."

Her breath hitches in her chest. "How can that be?" The answer to her question is so obvious. Her lover's charity saved her from this life. He purchased her contact and freed her from this life of servitude.

"You are free, Hisana."

"What will I? Can we? What?"

He grins at her breathless intrigue, and he kisses her forehead. "We may be if it is your wish."

"What other wish could I have?"

"I vow my heart to you," he says, eyes fixing the sky.

Her fingers intertwine with his. "I vow my life to you."


End file.
